


The Cop Out

by Jillypups



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gay Bar, M/M, Oh My God, What Is Wrong With ME, and noodle deprivation, blame it on the rain, body glitter, fuckin ygritte, gay cops, get with it mance, hahahahahahahaha, hahahahahahahahaha, hahhahahahahaha, i blame my noodle sisters, probs some of this sauvignon blanc is to blame too lbr, spencer's gifts is not the place to buy your club wear, umm, what ISN'T wrong with me, woo girls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 20:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8591662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jillypups/pseuds/Jillypups
Summary: So like. Okay, so like um. Look, Sarahcakes said in the group chat, something about something being a cop out. And I was like that would be a great name for a gay bar catering to law enforcement, and stupidly was like "yeah and Mance and Tormund bump into each other wearing body glitter."AND THEN THEY MADE ME WRITE IT.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SassyEggs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/gifts), [bex_xo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bex_xo/gifts), [sarahcakes613](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahcakes613/gifts), [vanillacoconuts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillacoconuts/gifts).



 

Tormund’s only been here for five nerve-wracking minutes and already he’s having second thoughts, at least as far as he can tell, considering how hard it is to think in here. The club is bass-boom, rib-vibrating loud, is dark like secret wants save for the sweep and pulse of multi-colored lights that zigzag across the dance floor in the back all the way to the circular bar in the middle of the room. And it’s _full_ of half dressed, mostly drunk men dancing and kissing and, as far as he can tell, fucking. At least in that one corner. Lucky bastards.

 I never should have let Sigorn convince me to come here, he thinks with a grunt as he folds his arms across his bare chest. It isn’t that he’s not out of the closet, the reason for his nerves. It’s more the fact that The Cop Out is a notorious club for those male city employees and police officers who enjoy having sex with other likeminded men, and the fact that, okay, he’s not so much _out_ of the closet as he has one foot in and one foot out. He keeps his sex life where it belongs: out of the office and into the bedroom or, if it’s been a rough day, the sex swing in his office, and has no idea which of his fellow officers he could run into here.

“All right, you sexy fucks, it’s time to rock out with your cocks out!” shouts the bartender as he hoists two full bottles of rum high up over his head. “Shots half price for as long as this song keeps bumping!”

“Yo, Satin, over here!” hollers a redheaded woman with a tiara on her head. “I need six shots for my ladies and two for myself. I’m getting married tomorrow! Woooo!” she shrieks, and her ladies all shriek with her, arms flung up in the air, as if ‘Wooo!’ is some sort of international honing call for drunk white women.

“I’ll get to you in a minute, Ygritte,” the bartender named Satin shouts. “So just keep your shirt on.”

“Yeah, honey, for my sake, keep those puppies _covered,_ ” says a patron standing next to the bride, and about ten other guys laugh.

Redhead girl cackles and pounds one of her two shots.

“Whatever! I bet these tits could turn you straight for at least ten seconds!”

Tormund sighs and rolls his eyes. He could kill Sigorn for hyping this place up, considering it’s like every other gay bar with the ubiquitous bachelorette party. They always claim to want to dance without getting groped though they always wind up grinding on some poor shmuck who just wants to get his balls tugged by another dude.

“Great, _another_ fuckin’ fruit fly,” a guy shouts, somewhere off to Tormund’s left amongst the throng of twinks covered in day glow body paint and hairy-bears just like himself.

He laughs.

“I was just thinking the same damn—ah, _fuck,_ ” he says, and even though he was feeling hot as hell standing shirtless in front of his mirror about forty minutes ago, right now he’s beyond mortified, because the fruit fly guy is none other than his sergeant. “Mance, what the fuck are you doing here?”

His boss is all long muscular legs in skinny jeans that leave nothing to the imagination, a fishnet shirt showing off a chest that is clearly the result of a gym membership. All in all, a fucking light year away from what their uniforms typically do. Tormund is this close to saying _Daaaaamn._

“The same fucking thing _you’re_ doing here, apparently, you big bastard, what the hell else would I be doing?” Mance says with a laugh and the roll of his eyes that Tormund can see even in the epileptic pulse of lights. And then he squints and sticks his neck out as he gives Tormund a look of amused scrutiny. “Jesus Christ, Giantsbane, is- is that _body glitter_ you’re wearing?”

Okay, now he could _really_ kill Sigorn. But the dig from his boss is enough to shoo away any residual embarrassment, because Tormund might be apprehensive to reveal his sexuality to coworkers, but he is _never_ too shy to step the fuck up.

“Oh yeah? You’re one to talk, Rayder, wearing a shirt that would be better suited on a hooker’s legs. Since when did you shop at Spencer’s?”

“You look like a stripper,” Mance says with a laugh, clearly unoffended as he steps into him.

“Hooker,” Tormund says with a smirk as he reaches out and plucks the disaster of a shirt Mance is in.

“A man’s gotta eat,” Mance shrugs, and then he sweeps his thumb across Tormund’s chest, a good firm press of flesh to flesh, and Jesus Fucking Christ, do _not_ spring a boner, Tormund tells himself. Mance gazes down at the glitter on the pad of his thumb. “I’m surprised you’re not wearing vanilla body spray to go with this shit.”

“Something tells me you’re not into vanilla, sergeant,” Tormund says, an eyebrow lifting when Mance grins and licks the glitter off his thumb.

“If it’s a slow news day, I’ll take what I can get,” Mance says, and his tongue sparkles in the sweep of dance floor light when he opens his mouth to laugh. “But no, no I’m not really into vanilla at all.”

“So what _does_ float your boat?”

Mance grins, flicks his gaze down the length of Tormund’s body and back up to his eyes, though it certainly lingers on certain areas.

Suddenly Tormund’s got swings on the brain, and the rolling pounding of bass makes his hips want to move, and not just in rhythm to the music. This is your boss, he tells himself. Do not get a boner for your boss, you will never hear the end of it if you do.

“Definitely not vanilla,” Mance says with a sniff as he takes another step into him, and there is a salacious moment, a divine moment where workplace drama flies right out of his head once Mance digs his fingers into the waistband of Tormund’s jeans, and his hand slides down and grasps and tugs.

“You can say that again,” Tormund says under his breath, and even though it’s overloud here, Mance is s close he can hear it, and he chuckles before pressing his mouth to Tormund’s chest.

“Right now, I’m into ginger.”


End file.
